


You've never looked so happy, Darling

by IronicallyKinky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Sherlock's kind of a dick to John, But he is anyway really, But this is not non-con, Jim's obsessive and a little creepy, M/M, Maybe Pining!John, NOT Johnlock, Onesided Johnlock, Seriously it's not really Johnlock, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronicallyKinky/pseuds/IronicallyKinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is incredible. Jim Moriarty is captivated. Perhaps it's not quite love, but they're working on it.<br/>(All characters are the property of ACD, Moffat and Gatiss. I do not claim ownership)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My hand slipped. I just kind of started craving pretty sexy kind of dark Jimlock and here we are. Again, because I feel the need to stress this, THIS IS NOT A JOHNLOCK FIC. I have tagged Johnlock because of reasons that will become apparent, but Sherlock does not reciprocate John's feelings towards him.

It begins, as many things do, slow and small. Jim is a gentleman, despite his flaws, and would never so much as shake Sherlock's hand by force. This respect doesn't extend to his flat and his belongings. It doesn't harm Sherlock directly, Jim reasons, as he swiftly picks the lock of 221 Baker street and climbs up, avoiding the stair that he knows creaks. He moves silently to Sherlock's room and smiles from the doorway. His precious detective is stretched on his bed, face blank for the first time that Jim's ever seen, and he's clutching a pillow to his chest. Jim hazards another step forward. Sherlock shifts and moans in his sleep. Jim exhales shakily. He's beautiful. His hair is spread across the pillow, and his skin seems to glow, it's so pale in the faint orange- blue light from outside. Jim wants to touch him, but that wouldn't be fair, so instead, he stands and watches for four hours. He documents every shift in expression, in posture. He barely breathes, in case he disturbs Sherlock. It's not until an alarm goes off upstairs, at exactly five AM, that Jim moves. He's out of Sherlock's room and on the street within three minutes.

The second time, two days later, Sherlock wakes up. Well, that's not quite true. He moves. He groans something that might be a real word. His eyelids flutter. Jim starts and moves to the shadows. Sherlock mumbles and moves, lifting his head. For a moment, it seems like he might be staring at Jim. Then he's asleep again, and god. Jim's heart is racing. To be seen, watching Sherlock sleep. Oh. He paces the room, looking through Sherlock's things. Open his wardrobe doors, pulls out a shirt, strokes the soft fabric. Brings it close. Inhales. It smells of Sherlock, and Jim bites his lip, then returns it. Closes the wardrobe. Moves to his nightstand. Opens a drawer. A thick book with a blank cover. Journal? Perhaps. Jim leaves it. Moisturizer. Cute. Bottle of cologne. Jim picks it up and sniffs it. It's his usual one, so Jim takes his jacket of and sprays it. Puts it back on. Much better. He checks the time and frowns. It's five to five. He turns and blows Sherlock a kiss, then retreats back to the street. Sherlock's cologne surrounds him, warm and comforting. Jim makes his way home and strips, then falls asleep clutching the jacket. When he wakes the smell is gone and the jacket is crushed beyond a respectable amount. He tosses it away, making a note to have it cleaned and pressed.

A month goes by before the next visit, and this time, it seems, Sherlock's on a crash. He's clutching the pillow tighter than ever, sweating and shaking and muttering. His hair is stuck to his forehead, and Jim wants to hold him. Wants to, but wouldn't dare. Not without his consent. Then Sherlock's eyes open. Not the half flutter of last time. Open, pupils expanding quickly in the dark, vaguely bloodshot. Jim's own eyes widen and he presses a finger to his lips. Sherlock nods once more, then rolls over. And then.  
"Please."  
It's whispered, and Jim can barely hear with Sherlock facing away. He smiles and stands. Kisses Sherlock's cheek tenderly.   
"I'm sorry." And then he's gone. There's no sign of him for weeks. Instead there's Irene Adler, and Sherlock proves he feels. It's incredible.

Then there's case after meaningless case, and Jim's always there. Always watching. He doesn't return to the flat. He misses it, he'll admit. After the last time, his lips seemed to burn where they touched Sherlock's cheek. So he decides. He's going to catch Sherlock's eye. Simple enough. Just so. The tower, the bank, the prison, and then, oh, Sherlock's intrigued. The trial, and they're practically eye-fucking across the courtroom. Sherlock shows off. It's unplanned, and Jim almost, almost falters. Sherlock remembers. And that wasn't planned at all. He shouldn't have, but it's there. In the half smirk that graces his features. He remembers that Jim was watching him, kissed his cheek. The trial ends, and Jim is walked to the holding cell. So is Sherlock. They stare at each other, through the walls, and Sherlock speaks first.  
"I've missed you." And isn't that unexpected. That means that Sherlock did remember, but not only that, he didn't mind.  
"Keeping my distance, Dear."  
"How many times?" Jim pauses. Considers lying to his darling sweet detective.  
"Three." Sherlock doesn't respond. Jim can hear his breathing through the wall.  
"Why?" The question is soft, Jim could have missed it.  
"You looked so… relaxed." Jim pressed his hand to the cool wall and smiled. "We ought to catch up. After this." He can hear Sherlock's forced chuckle.  
"Alright. Come for tea."

\---

He does. Picks up an apple and takes out a knife. Sits in Sherlock's chair. They have tea. They talk. It's all very civilized. They finish their tea and stand. Jim moves a little closer to Sherlock, and offers his hand. Sherlock practically caresses his palm and knuckles. They clasp hands and just that little contact is enough. More than enough. They move closer. Sherlock's Adam's apple jumps in his throat as he swallows and Jim stares up. Sherlock stares back. It's very nearly erotic. Jim's eyes flick to Sherlock's lips. It's a question. Sherlock nods.

Their lips meet gently, tenderly. Sherlock tastes sweet and ashy. He must have been smoking. Jim parts his lips hesitantly and their tongues brush together. It sends hot and cold waves through his body and Sherlock breaks his grip on Jim's hand to pull him closer. Jim pulls back a little and smiles at him.   
"John'll be home soon." He says softly. Sherlock sighs and nods.   
"I suppose." Jim pulls away.   
"I'll be back tonight." He promises and Sherlock swallows again.  
"Good."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game has escalated.

They don't fuck. Jim suspects they'll never fuck, but maybe, if he's very lucky, Sherlock might let them make love. Instead, Jim comes over, and Sherlock is laying in bed, half asleep, naked as usual. When Jim walks in he turns his head and smiles.  
"Come here." Jim obeys, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sherlock turns fully to face him and looks up.  
"You're beautiful." Jim murmurs, and lets Sherlock take his hand (He would never initiate contact), stroking his fingers softly. Sherlock lifts their fingers and brushes them against his mouth.   
"I don't understand. You never woke me up."  
"I couldn't bear to touch you without your consent, you know that." Sherlock flushes softly and licks his lips.   
"Come here. I'm inviting you into my bed. Please." Jim frowns and pulls his hand back.  
"Sherlock… I couldn't…"  
"Please." Sherlock cuts him off. Jim hesitates, then slips out of his jacket. He throws it aside and climbs onto the bed. He discards his shoes and socks and lies beside Sherlock, their faces only centimetres apart. Sherlock smiles slightly and kisses Jim tenderly.   
"Sherlock…" Jim pulls back. "You deserve so much better. I want to give you better. Do you and John…?"  
Sherlock laughs and shakes his head. "No. Of course not. I don't… He does. He does, but I don't think he knows yet." Jim nods tightly, the reassurance enough for now. He doesn't respond, instead opting to drag his thumb across the prominent bone of the detective's cheek. Sherlock leans into the feather-light touches and makes a contented mewling sound. Jim stares into his eyes, lit from outside to turn them steel grey. Jim's hand hesitates, and Sherlock covers it with his own.  
"You can touch me, you know. Please don't worry." He offered. Jim nodded, breath catching. Sherlock seems unaware the power he's just offered Jim with such a simple statement. His hands move to Sherlock's lips, and the detective kisses the fingers softly. Jim smiles and shifts closer.   
"May I?" 

Sherlock nods. He shifts down to kiss Sherlock gently on the mouth, before he moves over his jaw, and then down his neck. Sherlock lets out a breathy little moan and Jim stops. Sherlock shakes his head and Jim continues to his collarbones, licking along each smoothly, savouring the bitter salt of sweat and cologne. From there he moves down to Sherlock's chest, with Sherlock pushing the duvet to his hips. His tongue finds Sherlock's nipples and he grazes his teeth over each in turn, sucking and teasing. Sherlock gasps as he teases each, making obvious their sensitivity. Jim grins and moves to his sides, licking and kissing over his ribs and up to his arms. Back down, to his leanly toned stomach. Jim pauses at his navel and swirls his tongue in it briefly, then noses at the fine hairs dusting the line under the duvet. Sherlock makes a noise that may be a whimper.  
He moans. Loudly.  
Jim freezes as the ceiling over their heads creaks. They both follow the soft footsteps from what must be the bed to the door. Down the stairs. Jim jumps off the bed and rolls beneath it. Sherlock shifts, hiding his erection with the duvet. John knocks on the door.  
"Sherlock?" He asks from outside.  
"Yes? What is it?"   
"I… are you alright? I thought I heard something." Sherlock groans.  
"I'm fine, John. Go away."  
His footsteps retreat and Jim crawls out, suit dusty. Sherlock rolls over, erection gone. Jim kisses him once more, softly. Sherlock scowls. Jim sighs, and, knowing he can't leave out the front door, in case John is sitting waiting, opens the window and jumps. He lands in a bush and sustains minimal injury. With a last rueful glance backwards, he leaves.

Sherlock sleeps.  
John sleeps.  
The country sleeps.  
Jim plans.

 

They don't meet for another three weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a little late but this weekend was just insane. So, Monday/Tuesday seems to be the go, so let's stick with that. This isn't smut, I know. We're getting there. It's a little smutty.


	3. Chapter 3

Come and play.

I'm waiting.

They hold hands softly, strictly professional. Sherlock looks hurt. Jim wants to cry. It's so cold. Metal cold. His mouth heats it and several things happen all at once. His hair is warm and wet, like the thin tube that runs up his neck and hides discreetly in his hair. He topples backwards, a dull pain from the gun in his mouth that he's desperate to stretch out. As he begins to fall, it seems Sherlock wants to hold him up, which would ruin it. He falls. Sherlock's pretty lips press to his. He can hear a phone call. Touching. The phone hits the roof. Jim counts to ten before he gets to his feet. John is running towards him, crying, the poor dear. Sherlock is wheeled inside. Jim knows he's alive.

Cameras are installed in 221B. John's taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room and emerging the next morning in one of his shirts, like a girlfriend who didn't plan on staying the night. His eyes are always red and he often doesn't take a shower until late. It's sickening. 

Jim follows Sherlock, into dark clubs. Back alleys. Crack dens. He wants to say something, but no, too soon, too soon. He watches Sherlock use and be used, and wants to cut out the tongue of every man and woman who lays a hand on him. He does. He follows them home and disposes of them. He manages a full month of this, before he can't take it. He slides into the seat beside Sherlock in a dark club. Sherlock sighs and doesn't bother looking up.   
"Make it quick." He says softly, and Jim smiles sadly. He lifts the taller man's hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles softly. Sherlock seems startled and slowly lifts his head.  
"Jim?"  
"Did you miss me?" Sherlock withdraws his hand and pulls Jim's face close, kissing him tenderly. The kiss deepens quickly, and soon they're all teeth and tongues, still sat at the bar. Sherlock pulls back to take a gasping breath and smiles.   
"Perhaps we should move to a booth?" He offers, leading Jim from the bar and to a dark booth in the corner, where they're immediately on one another again. It's over five minutes before the draw back but stay close, Sherlock clutching at Jim's shirt as he breathes heavily.   
"Why?" Isn't that a loaded question? Why indeed? They never could have continued dancing around each other, stealing moments between John's interruption. Both needed more. Both knew it.  
"I need you."

Sherlock's taken a flat, not far from the bar. It's small and dark and dingy. There's a little bag of cocaine hidden in a couch cushion. Jim doesn't mention it. Instead they kiss slow and tender on the uncomfortable couch. Clothing peels off layer by layer until they're laying in their pants, clothes dark lumps around the couch, their bodies sliding together teasingly. Sherlock's cheek is wet against Jim's, their hands are everywhere. They break apart long enough to wander towards the bedroom, perhaps five by three metres with a bed and a side table. They lay together in the dark, illuminated by the murky blue-yellow light from outside. They strip fully, their erections meeting teasingly briefly . Gasping, Jim kisses him softly and pulls back.  
"Do you really want this?" Sherlock nods and reaches into the side table's small drawer. Condoms, a tub of lube and a few full syringes. Jim ignores them. Not now. Sherlock's hand takes hold of a condom and the lube, rolls the condom onto Jim, slicks two fingers. Slides one gently into his body with a breathy little noise that's hot as fuck. The second follows within a few seconds, Jim can see him moving the slowly, spreading and teasing. Jim huffs and strokes his pale thigh absently, watching his face as he moans softly. Sherlock's hand wraps around Jim. A few strokes and Sherlock slides down, arsehole fluttering teasingly as he moves. Tight and hot as sin, panting as their lips connect. Jim pulls his body close as they don't fuck. Kisses down his neck and a hand just supporting his arse. They barely move, staying like that, and then Sherlock shudders.  
"J-Jim." Beautiful.  
"Yes. Do it." He cries out softly and moves with a little more purpose, practically riding Jim but not pulling back. He comes not long after, practically sobbing, and kisses Jim gently. Jim gasps and thrusts up just a little more before he follows, Sherlock flush and hot against him.   
"I love you."

"I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I know it's a week late but hey, look, there's porn. Arty sexy porn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignorance is bliss

In the morning their limbs are tangled and their breaths are mingled and the sky outside turns the world steel grey. Sherlock wakes first, watches Jim for a few minutes, then gets to his feet and opens the window a bit for a cigarette. Jim wakes while he stands there and watches, the expanse of Sherlock’s pale skin, dotted with purple-blue bruises. He finishes his cigarette and tosses it out the window, then turns back to Jim, and the difference is thrown into sharp relief in the early light. His cheeks are hollow and there are dark rings under his eyes. His skin looks thin, stretched over his face and chest. Jim sits up and offers a hand. Sherlock takes it and walks back to the bed, lying beside Jim as his fingers wander down Sherlock’s back.   
“Sleep well?” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse.  
“Very, thank you.” It’s dancing around the problem, feigning normalcy. The bed is small and uncomfortable, the sheets are dotted with stains and cigarette burns. Jim kicks the duvet off and sits up.   
“What happened to you?” He asks softly, staring purposely downward. Sherlock sighs and sits up, pulling the blankets around him against the cool breeze from the window.   
“Jim, please…”  
“Why so many? And the drugs, Sherlock.” He glances up and Sherlock frowns a little before going and wrapping the blankets around him.  
“It was… so sudden. I didn’t know what to do, I’d never loved anyone so… completely. I’d never been loved back. I thought, maybe, you’d find me. Here you are.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”  
Jim turns and kisses him lightly. Their fingers tangle together and they fall back, wrapped in each other’s warmth.  
A lazy morning is spent in each other’s embrace, content to simply slide against the other. When the rain pregnant sky finally breaks, it brings relief and a sense of freshness that inspires Sherlock to get back to his feet and inhale the clear air deeply. Jim watches lovingly from the bed, happy to see his lover so content. From the angle he can see the tiny bumps in the soft crease of his elbow, and as Sherlock stands there he opens the draw, collects the syringes, and, before Sherlock can stop him, he tosses them out the window to the filthy street below. Sherlock glances back indignantly, but, at Jim’s raised eyebrow, he cows and turns his attention back to the rain. Satisfied, Jim leaves the room and goes to the lounge, scouring for cocaine. He finds five bags, about 100 grams in all, and all of it is flushed down the toilet. Once he’s finished, Jim returns to the bedroom and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, kissing the back of his neck lightly.  
“How do you feel?” He murmurs.  
“Much better for having you here.”  
“When was the last time you used?” Sherlock pauses.  
“Three days ago.” Jim nods slowly and sighs.  
“No more.”  
“Alright.”

The days pass peacefully, intermittent with languid sex that’s more a tender slide of skin on skin than the desperate actions of their first time. Sherlock stays true to his word, and no more drugs find their way into the flat, and for a time, they are perfectly content. Then there’s a crisis in Italy. Tearful goodbyes, promises it’ll only be a week or two, and Jim leaves to deal with it. They kiss languidly on the threshold and don’t actually say goodbye.

Jim is gone for a month. 

Sherlock finds his way into a club by the end of the second week, where a big, blond man takes him out the back and fucks him with no preparation. He plants a rough kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and leaves the detective to fall to his knees, sobbing and aching. That triggers it, and before long Sherlock’s doing cocaine every night. He gets high, convinces himself it won’t be so bad, goes out, gets bruised and fucked, goes home, gets high. He starts to hurt himself again, Jim never knew, small scratches on his legs, enough to bleed, not enough to scar. He barely moves from his bed, barely eats, barely thinks.

When Jim returns he finds Sherlock curled in the bloodstained sheets, looking even worse than when they first found each other. Sherlock is sleeping, breathing shallowly and making soft noises. Jim doesn’t hesitate in undressing and curling up beside him.   
“Oh, my beautiful genius.” He murmurs against the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock whines and finches away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit it's been a while since I updated. hey. Sorry about that.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos will be alarming in a good way. Praise will probably make me flip out. Constructive criticism will be glorified and noted extensively. I'll aim to update again by the weekend. I have the day off Thursday, so we'll see. Smut is coming, friends, just hold on.


End file.
